The Melancholy Times

[themelancholytimes]

Clockwork, Act IV

Maybe one day it will be really you.

[themelancholytimes]

Unending/Unyielding

Melancholy is like an old friend Every night I hear its voice again Every day I promise it will end I've built a fortress to stop the pain

I've built towers along my own shores Walls to protect me from my own past Yet they tell me: "These feelings are yours Open the gates and nothing shall last"

Defiant, I see through my own ruse A thousand aches I've yet to suffer "Always the poet, never the muse" I am a gambler, not a bluffer

Only in slumber I find my peace My old friend whispers sweet songs of death What will remain upon my decease Echoes of love and hope, my last breath

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Clockwork, Act III

Until a few months ago, I was in a dangerous descent of the mind. Pessimism, defeatism, a bleak feeling that nothing would ever be as I wished, no matter how hard I tried. Love found me again in such an improbable way that I legitimately started to question myself and the way I've always seen the world. Are things more than just coincidence? Is it possible that fate and destiny actually exist? Was I blind to this my whole life? I still do not know, and maybe it's not relevant that I do. What is relevant is that because of your love I remembered how it is to feel alive. For that, I am thankful.

Unfortunately, I cannot be thankful for much more than this. I have been through both heaven and hell in a matter of weeks, each day a different dominant feeling in my mind. Each day a new perspective, a different point of view, an alternate reality. I know not which one is the truest. I can only remember, but memories are fickle things. It's easy, almost tempting, to attach ourselves to them in hopes of retaining clarity.

I do not harbor anger, hate, or anything of the sort. Most negative feelings do not dwell in me for long, these days. I've learned how to keep most of them at bay. Doubt, however, is still challenging to deal with. That being said, surprisingly, I do not doubt my own memories. I have been misled and deceived enough times to learn the distinction. I know them to be true. Some truths, however, are easier to see than others. Or maybe it's more about accepting rather then seeing.

Then again, it's not always clear when we should stop questioning things and start accepting them. I trust my judgement, but still I wonder. Still I hope. It is a very powerful feeling, one that can only exist where something truly good once stood. It was really you, if only for a moment. And therein lies the tragedy. The heartbreaking thought of it only having been true momentarily.

There are few things more humbling in life than the realization that we didn't know someone as well as we thought. It's natural to fantasize about people, to fill in the gaps that are yet to be discovered, and I confess I find this whole process enticing. Maybe a little too enticing. But we never expect to be forced to shift our perspective and our understanding so radically. It makes us question… well, everything.

I tried to avoid all of this, you know? That's why I was always so keen to talk about it all so often. I thought if something, anything, had been done sooner, things could have been easier and some even avoided. But not anymore. Now things were said that can never be unsaid, never forgotten. Time will never be able to change the truth. And as it moves only forward, so must we.

I have indeed been questioning many things, but not the feelings that were shared, not the desires that were expressed, not the words that were spoken. There is, however, one question more important than anything, one question burning in my heart, and you are the only one who can show both me and yourself the answer.

Who are you?

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Epitaph

They say hope is the last one to die I pray it's true, there's so much to live And even though some nights I still cry My heart still finds the strength to forgive

In the darkness, I hear my own breath Warm memories provoke my release Silence flows through me, the sound of death In meditation I find my peace

In the end, I find myself grinning For I'm nothing but empirical So many things these hands have carried And yet I still have the urge to write

Every dawn is a new beginning Every sunshine is a miracle For those who once wished to be buried Eternally under the moonlight

– MP

[wrathofgnon]

“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

[themelancholytimes]

Mirage

She sits down on the seat across me on the train. We never lock eyes, but I see her. I take care to not stare at her, just a few glances here and there. She is quite beautiful but nothing extraordinary, and this is not a tale of lust nor love.

Time stops for a brief moment. Her slightly curled black hair threatening to graze her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes darting rapidly from one place to another, from one person to another, sentries to herself, trying not to be obvious. She wields a fierce frown above her eyes, explicitly stating her mistrust. She is quietly angry, the kind of anger you can only feel when something is beyond solution. Surely something has happened to her.

The train is relatively empty, just a few people scattered across it. Some disembark in a station, and she changes seats. Now she's facing sideways from me. Still frowning and darting her eyes around. The same situation happens again a couple of stations later and she's back to the same seat as before. She is obviously distressed, but why?

She has her right leg crossed over her left one, and I see it clearly now. She wears simple black shoes, and the once white shoelaces on the left one are very visible, facing towards me. Tied loosely, asymmetrically, the longer tip falls onto the floor, as if it was tired. It can't wait to get home. These shoes must have been tired of being burdened by the weight of this woman's feelings around all day. I can hear them sighing, like a worker who just wants to sit down after a 10-hour shift.

A few more minutes pass and I arrive at my destination. She gets off at the same station than me. She walks faster than me. I'm not in a hurry, after all. Her stride is heavy, certain and unyielding. She quickly climbs the escalator. Soon, I lose sight of her amongst the crowd. I never learned her name nor what her feelings were and why she felt them. I never wanted to. I will never see her again, but for a brief moment, I knew her.

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Passing Clouds

Many people say they wish they could relive their own lives with their current knowledge and maturity. "I would do it all differently!" they say, confident that their lives would be better, that they would be more successful or happier.

I, for one, reject this notion. My experiences and decisions have forged me into the person I am today. They do not need to have been positive, for they are not sentient as to have their own morals, nor to have been correct, as they answer to nothing and no one. My memories are the foundation on which my psyche has been built upon. Even though no one chooses to suffer, it is irrelevant. The burden of destiny is not ours to bear.

Therefore, it is an utter disrespect to oneself to be as dismissive of one's own past. It is a mischaracterization of one's own failures, sufferings, long gone feelings, morals and decisions. It diminishes the significance of growth, as if it was unearned.

I do not believe suffering plays a role in our lives as some sort of grotesque, disembodied teacher. I believe, however, that we should be able to reflect upon our own place in our own - and other people's - lives, and, by analyzing how we once lived and comparing it to our own present reality, find it fulfilling to have been walking the path, jagged as it may have been.

After all, death comes for us all, and so, it is reasonable to conclude that living is life's own reward. It is irrelevant whether life is to be seen as a gift, divine providence, an accident, or a mere coincidence. What is relevant is that it is inevitable. Life is inevitable, was inevitable, and will always be inevitable. We should not ever act as if we knew the answers.

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Attunement

In your absence I whispered to the wind Wishing you could hear my words in the breeze

In your absence I cried to the seas Wishing my feelings could reach your shores

In your absence I confessed to the trees Hoping a blade of grass would drift to your window

In your absence I laughed to the sun Hoping a ray of light would brighten your eyes

In your presence I would do it all again Knowing that the skies look down at us in envy

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Clockwork, Act II

It is really you. Something deep inside me knows, as if it were etched in stone since the first time I learned your name, which I never came close to forgetting. I just spent too many years without knowing how to read.

There are infinite reasons we could find to justify it, and yet, does it even matter? We've found each other again, unwillingly and unexpectedly. You told me yourself: you were always in love with me. And we are but mirrors to each other. Somehow I also was always in love with you. I just spent too many years without knowing where to look.

I'm quite spiritual for an agnostic, quite optimistic for a realist and quite superstitious for a skeptical. They say true love is transformative. Well, I think I had a head start. Maybe you're feeling the same, I don't know. I'll know someday.

I find myself thinking about destiny, fate, the inevitability of life and how we are but bound to the weave of the universe and are only swimming in the fabric of spacetime. It's all so absurd, so mathematically unlikely that it must be something else. Of course, I know despite everything, I still am and will always be an idealist, and so, the very foundations of my relationship with reality have been affected.

Maybe I just spent too long without knowing who to love.

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Afterlife

Our purpose? Now that's a funny question How could it be anything else besides living? I wasn't chosen for anything Wasn't born for a divine reason Although my mother believes so

How could I, then, interpret life as Nothing but an accident? A coincidence, or even (mis)fortune? I've asked this myself many times, you know? Never found an answer But never stopped looking for one

Wait, you mean to tell me the opposite? If our lives are mere chance, surely The purpose would be for us to die But, if that were true, wouldn't it be More reasonable if nothing existed at all?

Oh, maybe there are more reasons, you say? Such as what we do between life and death Well, mostly we work and sleep But that sounds absurd My purpose is not to be a machine That is turned on and off each day I am alive

The most human thing there is? Well, it surely must be love You know? Those rare moments in which All of our thoughts and feelings And fears and joys and vulnerabilities Are completely exposed So strong it feels like an universal force Like a black hole tearing us inside out

Why else do we do the things we do? What else has the power and the ability To be so transformative, so unstoppable? What else makes us feel so… alive? It must be love

I was born from love And I wish to die from it In the meantime, I will also Love as unapologetically as I can For I too shall remain but a memory My love will be my legacy

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Rotina

Acorda, vai perder a hora Eu sei que não quer, mas Que opção a gente tem?

Um dia de cada vez, lembra? Não é justo mesmo. Mas chegou a ser algum dia?

Olha, toma o seu café Fuma o seu cigarro Depois a gente vê o que faz

Cansado? Você nem fez tanto Toma um banho quente Deixa pra pensar depois

Deixa pra pensar depois Vê um filme, ouve música Deixa pra pensar depois

Acorda, vai perder a hora.

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Home

Wandering, wondering, if only we could Searching and longing for something so good Back to the same place in which once we stood Silent tears flowing, so misunderstood

Memories reborn, the warmest of shivers Plucked from the depths of our hearts as we quiver Souls left forlorn, between these two rivers Blossoming love through unseen strands of silver

We looked for each other for far too long In people, in dreams and in fantasies Now this cruel distance feels blatantly wrong Dive in the ocean with me, open seas

I'm certain this time we could never forget If we were to distance ourselves once again The chance of being drenched in our mutual sweat Our hands intertwined and our eyes know no pain

If fate does exist, we should give it its due I can't bear the thought of being always so far So please come with me and let us start anew What good is a home if the door's left ajar?

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Clockwork

I haven't eaten today. Couldn't. Or maybe wouldn't. Didn't feel like it. I know I shouldn't, but we hunger for more than food sometimes. I thought I was full, to be honest. Forgot about it. In reality, I remembered.

We remembered. Time is a funny thing, isn't it? It all goes by so fast, but in a few brilliant and impossible moments, it lasts forever, like the tiniest glimpse of a dying star frozen in place. What it could have been. What it could be.

It's tempting to believe in God again sometimes. In fate. Something. Anything that could justify the mistiming that we experience involuntarily so many times throughout our lives. Many bother, some hurt, and fewer even are devastating. Unfair. A crime towards the purest of feelings.

Undoubtedly it was not supposed to be this way. It is incoherent, incomprehensible, unfathomable, unjustifiable. And yet, it is true. I've spent years since then rationalizing every singular detail of my life and of those around me. And for what? Nothing to show except a frustrated soul. A vessel of what once filled with brightness and innocence.

I've met many ghosts in my life, all of them from my own past. I've made peace with some, even befriended others. This one I can't let go. Not again. Not when I have the chance to embrace it for what it is. I cannot.

I won't. I refuse to deny myself the possibility of happiness. I've done it too many times in my life. But I've grown. I learned. What couldn't be then could be now. Somehow. I wish it was different. I wish it was easier. I wish it was indeed fate. Maybe it is. And if it isn't I want to see it through. I deserve it. We deserve it.

The absurdity of it all makes me want to laugh. In truth, I have been crying tears of stillborn passion. It's irrelevant. Whether I laugh or cry or live or die, I will have been myself throughout it all. And what am I if not an eternal lover? A perpetual archaeologist, digging deep into my heart and soul until I find one to share them with.

Is it really you? I am unsure, but I can't turn back now. It's too late for me to give up. Not again. Not again. Not again.

I loved you once, you know? I couldn't tell you at the time. Or maybe wouldn't, and for that I am sorry. You've seen in me the love you wanted and in my fantasies I kept the memory of you alive to remember what I was looking for. Time passed. We forgot.

It is so easy to remember, isn't it? The simple of joy of conversation, the innocent interest in each other's chores, the irresistible desire of sharing the slightest piece of ourselves, an unassuming picture you send me creating the proper context out of thin air, the sweet sound of your voice which I sometimes have to listen to several times to not get carried away by its beauty and understand the topic at hand. It all comes back in the blink of an eye. Like time never passed at all. I wish we could stop it.

I wish time froze so I had more of it to talk to you. Laugh with you. Cry with you. Smell your neck, hold your hand, feel your lips. It was all a fantasy once. I can't bear the thought to let it die a fantasy again.

I don't expect certainty, nor do I wish for it. I wish for even the tiniest possibility of mending the wound we created in spacetime so many years ago. To repair a divine misfortune. To feel like home again. I do not wish for time to pass us by again. Not again.

– MP

[themelancholytimes]

Charon

I feel like I'm traumatized beyond the point of return Beyond the point that my consciousness can fathom Unable to distinguish between dream and reality I roam the void inside my head, searching for answers I have no strength to scream anymore My heart feels bleak and devoid of any kind of feeling My eyes are dry, tears stubborn and unyielding And still I roam, not knowing which questions to ask I've felt worse but never as empty as this Words can only do so much to express my thoughts And here I was just wondering if I could be born anew In this confusion it feels like I've never truly lived at all Sleep is my refuge, the cold embrace of death God himself would never understand The meaning of sorrow and despair As I drown in the morning sunshine once again

- MP

[themelancholytimes]

Poseidon

I yield Staring down at the abyss Waves are violently swirling Crashing down in unnatural patterns Yellow eyes watch me as I drown I live Only to laugh at what I've missed The ocean is cold yet it's burning "Surviving is all that matters" It whispers as I go down I die For it's not worth anymore to dismiss Those eyes in themselves are submerging I should leave decisions to my betters The gods watch closely as I bow I breathe Crying so loud it's hard to miss Pain and pleasure always merging Forever trapped in dark matter I guess I'll be reborn in a while

- MP

[themelancholytimes]

Heat Death

Drifting away in solitude Ethereal, I move mental mountains Forever chasing my plenitude Blood and sweat, a thousand fountains.

Heaven laughs at me, timeless I walk the path again, hopeful Memories fade away, joyless Time twists itself, mournful.

Tears already dead, sadness long gone Empathy is but a shadow, a lingering thought Aching bones, weary heart, all is gray.

And with a deadly silence, entropy is done Drained me whole, no matter that I fought For all white eyes can do is to cry and pray.

- MP

[themelancholytimes]

Soneto da Imortalidade

O céu cinza se fecha sobre mim

Pairando lentamente em paz eterna

Reflete em bel-prazer a dor interna

A tempestade rega o meu jardim

Memórias pintadas de carmesim

A doce angústia que nelas hiberna

Morna como uma figura materna

Uma solitária flor de jasmim

O Sol cada vez mais frio e amarelo

Foi morto pela própria insegurança

Foi enterrado em seu próprio castelo

O amargo sabor da desesperança

O timbre da morte jamais tão belo

Meu último sopro é como uma dança

- MP